Painting the Corners Read online

  Some of them would give a ballplayer a free pass into the Hall if all he did was hit a lot of home runs in his time, as if nothing else counts. He could’ve been a big out in the clutch or the worst fielder in the league, but it wouldn’t matter.

  Then there are others who’ll let a guy in if he happened to put together one or two career years and maybe carried his team to a pennant while he was hot. They forget the fact that he was nothing more than average all the rest of the time.

  And you’ve got writers who’ll vote for a guy just because he managed to hang around for twenty years and pile up a bunch of statistics. Big deal. Hell, any ballplayer can rack up a 150 hits a year even if he’s batting at no better than a .270 clip. And what’s fifteen homers in a season today? Nothing to write home about. But if some guy stays healthy and does it for eighteen or twenty years, he’s suddenly Hall of Fame material in their eyes.

  Come on, let’s cut the crap and be objective. The trouble with some of these baseball scribes is that they really don’t understand the game they’re covering. They only see what’s obvious and miss everything else. A home run that wins it in the ninth gets them all excited. They go into the clubhouse and drool all over the guy who hit it. Every word the big hero says is in the paper the next morning. But they can’t appreciate the value of someone who goes out there day after day and makes all the plays his team needs without being the star of the game. Writers like that remind me of football fans who just watch the ball all the time. They don’t see everything else that’s going on while the quarterback is dropping back to pass or some speed merchant is trying to get around the corner.

  I pushed as hard as I did for Charlie Garrison to get into Cooperstown because the man deserves to be there. This is the thirteenth time he’s been on the ballot and the thirteenth time he’s gotten jobbed. That means he’s only got two chances left to walk in the front door. And you bet your ass I’ll be going all out for him again on the next ballot the way I did this year. Why the hell shouldn’t I?

  In the first place, I’ve paid my dues. The rules say a writer becomes qualified to vote for the Hall of Fame once he’s covered baseball for ten seasons. Last year was my tenth; so now I’ve got the chance to do something more than just write a column about who ought to get in and who wasn’t good enough. I can vote too. And if I want to campaign for some ballplayer and try to get other writers out there to check his name off on their ballots, that’s up to me. There’s nothing that says I can’t do it.

  Ten years on the baseball beat means watching everything down on the field for close to 2000 games — I don’t have to tell you that, Larry, you did the play-by-play on every one of them. When you’re covering the home team in this town, you’d better have a damn good idea what’s going on out there all the time. The fans around here know their baseball, and they won’t put up with a reporter who doesn’t. They can see for themselves when a shortstop doesn’t have the gun to throw a guy out from deep in the hole, or when a power hitter keeps trying to pull everything in sight instead of going the other way when they’re giving him half the field. Most of the folks who come out to see this team play don’t need me to tell them those things, even though they expect me to, and a whole lot more. The point I’m trying to make is that I size up a ballplayer on his whole game. I know every which way he helps the club and how he puts himself out to try and get those “W”s, day by day, year after year. By the time he’s through playing, it’s no mystery to me whether he’s Hall of Fame material or not.

  In the second place, Charlie Garrison should’ve made it in before some of the guys who’ve been elected in the last ten or fifteen years. That’s how I feel about it, and that’s exactly what I wrote in my column every time Garrison had to swallow his disappointment and see someone get in who never did as much for the game as he did. I saw what he went through when that happened, and it broke my heart every time. I mean if you just compare his record with other second basemen who made the Hall, you can’t help wondering why them and not him. I don’t like to start naming names or making one-on-one comparisons. It sounds like sour grapes and it’s a surefire way of getting some fans all hot and bothered. But I don’t know how else I can wake people up to the fact that Garrison’s total game was every bit as good as other players I could rattle off who’ve already been recognized as Hall of Famers.

  Let’s look at it and try to be objective. How many second basemen sitting in Cooperstown played the position in the big leagues for sixteen years? Charlie did, from when he broke in at 21 to when he hung up his spikes at 37. He was in the lineup for almost 2500 games, all for the same ball club. So if longevity’s important to them, he’s got it. And loyalty besides, because he was never interested in playing somewhere else for more money. He cared about this team and this town.

  Playing second, remember, isn’t like standing around in the outfield waiting for a fly ball and thinking about your next at bat or your golf game. You’re involved in half the stuff that goes on: whether it’s fielding a ground ball, turning the double play, or being the cutoff man and getting the ball in to the catcher for a play at the plate. You’ve got to be thinking ahead on every pitch in that position.

  How many clubs have been able to win a pennant without a great second baseman? I mean someone who’s always there to make the big defensive play when the game’s on the line. You know the answer as well as I do. Very few. And he has to get the job done during the dog days of July and August, when it’s a bitch to go out there and play every day. But let’s face it, that’s when any game you blow on an unearned run means another game you’ve got to win in September — under pressure — if you want to make the playoffs. So how can any writer with half a brain ignore the fact that Garrison was out there at second on six pennant winners during his time?

  There just has to be more objectivity, Larry. The writers aren’t supposed to let any personal feelings or prejudices get in the way. But how I see it, they’re not living up to that when it comes to Garrison. Sure, the record books tell you some of the things he accomplished out there. You can read that he won five Gold Gloves in his sixteen years, three of them in a row, and that twice he had the fewest number of errors among second basemen in both leagues. But that’s not the whole story. Great plays — I mean real game-saving kinds of plays — don’t show up in the books. But the fans who were there when it happened remember it the rest of their lives.

  Charlie had so many great ones. His club could’ve lost the pennant in ’64, on the last day of the regular season, if he didn’t make that grab over his shoulder in short right with the bases loaded in the eighth inning and everybody running. The right fielder had no chance to get there, and that play was the difference in the ball game.

  Or how about game six of the World Series in ’71? He must have dived almost ten feet to his right to backhand that liner off Toby Johnson in the webbing of his glove and save the game in the ninth. The guys up in the press box said that was the best defensive play on the team all year. There wasn’t a reporter covering the Series who didn’t agree that it may have been one of the greatest clutch plays ever made by a second baseman. Those are the kinds of things I’m talking about, stuff that a responsible writer is supposed to remember when he’s got his ballot in his hand and ten players he can vote for.

  It just makes me sick that so many guys turning out columns in other baseball towns won’t take the time to study the case for Garrison and look at it objectively. Some of them either never knew or have just forgotten that he was one hell of an offensive player as well. Not with a lot of home runs or RBI’s, I’ll admit that, but that’s not what’s expected from his position anyway. There were three years he led the league in bunt singles, and four more that he put down more sacrifice bunts than anyone else. That tells you a lot about the guy. It says he was able to start a rally with his speed by getting on base, and that he could keep one going by moving a teammate over when the manager was playing a little small ball to win the game.

  Don�
�t forget about stolen bases. In his first nine years in the league, Garrison was in the top ten every time. It was only after he got his knee torn up that he slowed down a step and didn’t have the green light to go on his own any more. I know how much he suffered with that knee. Some guys wouldn’t want to think of stealing again after what he went through, but he’d do anything to help his club win.

  Before he got hurt, Charlie also led the majors in stealing home four different years. He did it five times in ’68, which was pretty unbelievable. Will anyone ever forget Mickey Coleman’s no-hitter against Chicago that year? Garrison tripled with two out in the ninth, hobbled around for a few minutes like he was dying with pain after he got up from his slide, and then stole home on the next pitch! That was the only run of the game. What’s-his-name, the manager, said afterwards there was no way he was going to let Mickey go out there for the tenth inning on a cold night like that with all the pitches he’d thrown. If Garrison hadn’t won the game right then the way he did, you wouldn’t see Coleman’s name in the record books today.

  Garrison also had four 30-30 years when he hit 30 doubles and stole 30 bases. Not a lot of ballplayers have pulled that one off. Some of the writers who don’t think he belongs in the Hall point to his .265 lifetime batting average. But even most of them will admit he was always one of those guys you wanted to see up there in the late innings when the game was on the line. He didn’t knock in a lot of runs for his career — I admitted that before — but he got more than his share of hits when it really counted. So why don’t they take those things into consideration when they’re voting?

  That’s what I’m talking about, Larry, when I keep saying that if you look at everything about Charlie Garrison objectively, there’s no way you keep him out of the Hall of Fame. He was a terrific leadoff hitter. He got on base when you had to get something going. He was a threat to steal most of his career. He delivered the run you had to have when the game was up for grabs. And day in, day out, he was the spark plug on the club and did everything that was expected of him on the field.

  With all he accomplished in his time, I had no problem making the pitch I did to everyone in the Association who had a vote, asking them to give Charlie their support. If I hadn’t done it, I wouldn’t have been able to look myself in the mirror. A few of them were offended by it, I know. Some told me to go easy, that he’d have no trouble getting put in by the Veterans Committee if the writers didn’t elect him. But he shouldn’t have to wait to go in the back door. Not, like I said, when you compare him with other players who are already there.

  Sure, I had a long talk with Garrison before I started doing all that PR for him. He was afraid it might not look too good and could actually hurt his chances. But I reminded him that he’d already come up short in the balloting twelve times — the last time by 54 votes — so there wasn’t much to lose. He finally gave me the okay, but made me promise that I’d just make the best case I could for him without twisting anyone’s arm. That’s the way he is, as much as getting into Cooperstown means to him. I told him all I’d do is try and get everyone to look at it as objectively as possible. I just wanted them to review the stuff I put together so they could see what he did when he played the game. Just leave their personal prejudices out of it when it was time to vote, that’s all.

  Now that the results are in, you can understand why I feel like this. We got a lot closer this time, missing out on the seventy-five percent he needed by just 28 votes. That means it’s still going to take an awful lot of work to get him elected in his last two chances. I’m encouraged by bringing the number down like we did, but I don’t know what else there is to tell those dummies who didn’t vote for him. I guess I’ll have to analyze his stats all over again and see if there’s anything there I missed.

  What I’ve thought about doing is getting some testimonials written up from the guys who played with him and against him during his sixteen years, especially the ones who already made it into the Hall. I’ll let them put whatever they want to say in their own words. Maybe the Association members who see it will be more impressed by that. I’ll do whatever I can, that’s for sure. Anything at all to help the writers be as objective as possible.

  But the hard part is coming tomorrow. Garrison’s been out of the country, on vacation, so he doesn’t know about the vote yet. His plane is due in about two in the afternoon, and he’s expecting me to meet him at the airport. As soon as he sees me he’s going to start grinning, grab on to my arms, and ask me what happened. Great, huh? How’d you like to pinch-hit for me on that one? I’m going to have to give him a hug and say, “Sorry, Pop, you didn’t make it. You came up 28 votes short. Come on, let me help you with your suitcases and I’ll get you and mom home. We’ll talk about it in the car.”

  •

  A FLARE FOR DAN NUGENT

  •

  “A baseball game is simply a nervous breakdown divided into nine innings.”

  —Earl Wilson

  DAN NUGENT CLOSED his eyes for a few moments and took a deep breath as he waited in the slow-moving line for a taxicab. He had arrived at the airport in the middle of Boston’s evening rush hour and knew that the ride into the city — especially getting through the tunnel — would be slow. Just relax, he told himself. Don’t worry about anything. No one here’s going to recognize you as an old Braves ballplayer. It’s been too long.

  Once Evelyn, his wife, had persuaded him to accept the invitation to the anniversary weekend and make the trip, he wanted everything to be positive. No qualms about seeing some old teammates for the first time in 40 years. No concern, when he took the field, about any boos or insults he might hear from fans who still remembered him. And no regrets about coming when, inevitably, the local papers recapped his play in the seventh and final game of the ’48 World Series between his Boston Braves and the Cleveland Indians.

  The cab ride to the new hotel in Kenmore Square was as slow as he’d expected. But when the driver finished cursing his way across several lanes of traffic, edging to the right each time, until he finally pulled up to the curb in front of The Grand Beacon, Nugent realized that he couldn’t recall anything he had seen after leaving the airport. Once again, for the thousandth time, or was it the ten thousandth time, he had been replaying the ninth inning of that seventh game in his mind. It was always so clear.

  The fans were on their feet, clapping their hands and cheering for the out that would make their team world champions. The Indians had runners on second and third, two out and Whitey Semanski at bat. Nugent remembered thinking that if he had been managing the team, he’d have put Semanski on base and pitched to Vic Walters, the lefty. Johnny Foster, the Braves ace, could handle lefties as easily as right-handers, and the infield could play for a force at any base. But Tommy Brenner, the manager, didn’t see it that way.

  As soon as Nugent stepped inside the open door to the hotel, the doorman reached out quickly and took his small overnight bag. It was as if two spies had met in the park and the transfer had been prearranged. “This way, sir,” he said, “check-in is over there to the left.”

  Nugent followed him to the marble counter where a female clerk — wearing a black necktie over a pink shirt, the same uniform as the men around her — handled his registration and gave him the plastic keycard to his room. A bellhop, whom he hadn’t noticed, snatched up the bag without asking as soon as the pretty clerk had wished Nugent a nice day. He resented the young man’s forwardness, and in another time and place wouldn’t have tipped anything after being shown to his room. But he reminded himself again to stay cool; as his grandson would say: “Go with the flow, be positive about everything.”

  The invitation had stated that there would be a dinner for players of both teams in the Charles River Room at seven o’clock. That gave Nugent a little more than an hour to rest, clean up, and get dressed. He read the long distance dialing directions on a pad next to the telephone and called Evelyn, but gave up after seven rings. He arranged for a wakeup call in 30 minutes,
just in case he fell asleep, then closed the drapes and got into bed.

  Moments later Nugent was back in the ninth inning of the final game of the Series. The count to Semanski was two balls and no strikes. Foster wanted to keep the ball outside, pitching to Semanski’s weakness. The first pitch fastball had been high, and then the umpire made a bad call on the curve that painted the outside corner of the plate. Nugent thought the hitter’s count would persuade Tommy Brenner to change his mind and give Semanski an intentional pass, but the Braves manager remained motionless in the near corner of the dugout. When the catcher called for the curve again, Nugent hid his face with his glove for a moment and hollered the word that let his shortstop know what the pitch would be. He inched a little closer to first base, reached down for a pebble he spotted on the infield and eased onto the balls of his feet as Foster went into his stretch.

  The dinner was enjoyable. There was an open bar for an hour, during which the players moved around the room greeting each other. They had been given nametags to wear, each with the player’s name in large, easy-to-read letters and a picture in uniform taken at the World Series 40 years earlier. Aside from a barely noticeable set of love handles that partially hid his belt, Nugent had not changed very much since then. The years had been kind to him in comparison with many of the men in the room, and he was pleased to be recognized quite easily by a number of his former teammates. There was a lot of light banter about retirement, baldness, knee replacements, and especially golf games that were either improving with age or going to pot.

  Each table at dinner was set for six. Nugent was seated with two former Braves players, one of whom was Frank May, his partner at shortstop for four years, the last of which was their World Series year. They were joined by three members of the Indians. The lenses of May’s glasses were almost Coke-bottle thick, but he still had the same livewire energy he had shown both on and off the field years earlier. He kidded the Cleveland players about things that had happened in the Series, but didn’t mention the play that had deprived Nugent of sleep on countless nights over the 40 years that had flown by. The tension that embraced Nugent’s body while May had his fun didn’t abate until the conversation at the table switched to a discussion of the modern day players. The emphasis was on their greater athleticism and record-breaking power statistics; but the talk returned several times, with undisguised envy, to the enormous salaries they were being paid as a result of free agency.